


Bertie and the Unlikely Introduction

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Not Britpicked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 12:26:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6116439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bertie gets dragged off by an old school chum to meet someone, but this time it's no 'tender goddess.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bertie and the Unlikely Introduction

It was one of those perfectly spiffing mornings that only seem to come around when one is least expecting it, rather like a visit from an aunt--one of the benevolent Dahlia sort, you understand, not the nephew-devouring Agatha type. Unseasonably clear skies had been joined by a nice bit of a breeze from the south, and as a result, the snail was on his thorn and the lark was wherever one might expect to find such an article when the upshot is that all's right with the world. It was far too nice a day to stay cooped up inside, and after Jeeves shimmered off with the breakfast things, I leapt from bed like a Wooster new-minted, whistling a bit as I bunged self into the clothes Jeeves had laid out for me.

You have met my man Jeeves, haven't you? He's quite the marvel, and frankly I don't know how I got along without him. Aunt Agatha likes to say that she doesn't know how I can get along _with_ him, but Aunt A. is unreasonably prejudiced in favor of serious-minded young women who want to mold Bertram into something, and as Jeeves has extricated me from any number of entanglements with said females, I suppose it's only fitting for Agatha to regard him as her natural enemy.

"Well, I'm off," I said on my way out that morning, bound for a turn around the park and maybe a stop in at the Drones to see if any of the lads were about. "No sense staying indoors on a day like this. In fact--take the afternoon, Jeeves. If the weather holds, the young master's not to be expected back before the witching hour."

"Very good, sir," Jeeves murmured, anticipating me at the door with hat and whangee already in hand.

"Er," I added, pausing on the threshold as Jeeves held the door open for me. "Precisely when is the witching hour, anyway?"

"Commonly the 'witching' hour is thought to be midnight, sir," Jeeves offered without pause for thought, "though the term may also be applied to any hour between midnight and three, three being known as 'the devil's hour.'"

"Close enough," I replied, long past wondering at the man's encyclopedic knowledge, however arcane the topic. "Expect me back by broomstick, then!"

It's always difficult to interpret Jeeves' expressions, and I dare say that to the casual eye, the man's a positive mystery, but I could tell from the infinitesimal quirk of his smile that he was amused.

The day being as fine as it was, there was no shortage of strollers in the park's general environs, and a free bench wasn't to be had for love or money. One could hardly heave a brick without hitting three pairs of blushing young lovers or two of the still-sprightly aged variety, and the legion of small children running about unleashed put me quite in mind of a barbarian horde in training. As it was only a matter of time before some enterprising young lad gathered them under his banner for a cherub-cheeked reign of terror, I was considering legging it for the relative safety of the Drones when a hand descended upon my shoulder from behind.

I doubt most people have been collared often enough to sort out the impressions it can leave, but hands that descend out of nowhere have certain gradations, as it were, in style and force, and it doesn't take long to tell them apart. There is the heavy Spode-like hand, of course, which hasn't seemed to have worked out whether it wants to show one forcibly to the door or forcibly throttle the life from one, which is not to be confused with the even heavier Stilton-like hand, which is apt to weigh in quite firmly on the side of throttling. There's equally a world of difference when caught quietly slipping out the back to escape the plotting of some foolhardy scheme when the nabber in question is Stiffy Bing or my esteemed Aunt Daliah; the esteemed A., it should be mentioned, tends to forego the shoulder in favor of a pinch of the ear. To put it in a nutshell, most often the sudden appearance of a staying hand was enough to make me want to bolt for the hills, but this one had a certain thingummy about it, a feeling of, 'Oh, I say, don't I know you?' that made me turn with a polite smile rather than shying like a startled colt.

"Bertie?" asked the owner of the hand, a nattily-dressed young fellow of about my age who I recognized instantly after a startled double-take. "Bertie Wooster?"

"Spooky!" I cried with delight, wringing his hand as he laughed over hearing his old school moniker. He was an earl now, of course, but I'd known Vincent Phantomhive the Second since we were boys together at Eton, and there's no sense in standing on ceremony with someone you've shared a duck pond with, hiding from the Headmaster. We'd fallen out of touch since leaving Oxford, and he looked more harried than I would have credited from the self-possessed lad I remembered, but I'd have known Spooky anywhere. "I haven't seen you in a dog's age! Where have you been keeping yourself, and what brings you to the metrop.?"

"Oh, you know," Spooky said distractedly, "work--on both counts. Actually...." Something made his eyes sharpen just then, and while I hadn't seen that look directed from Spooky to self in some years, I knew all too well the look of a man about to ask a favor. "Actually, you might be just the person I need. Are you free? There's someone I'd like you to meet."

"Er...listen, Spooky," I began nervously, "if this is about some girl--"

"It's a man, actually," Spooky offered with a wry smile.

"I _say._ " I sort of goggled at him, not particularly shocked--we _had_ been at school together--but a crowded park hardly seemed the place to conduct a discussion of the old Etonian spirit. "I'm not sure that's actually better. I mean--not that I have anything _against_ \--"

"Oh, yes," he practically purred, linking his arm through my own and steering me gently about. "You'll do nicely. Come along, Bertie; we've places to be."

I don't know if you've ever tried to say no to a Phantomhive, but take it from me: it's dashed difficult. Before I knew it, I was ensconced in a cab, and though the name of the street he gave was unfamiliar to me, seeing our driver's surprised start and incredulous backwards glance didn't exactly foster a spirit of warm confidence in the Wooster breast.

As I watched the streets around us grow more disreputable by the block, I was too busy trying to talk Spooky into picking another destination to pay the location where we disembarked the attention it deserved. "Really, Spooky," I was protesting as he dragged me from the cab, "I'm no use at all when it comes to matters of the heart--ask anyone. In fact, why don't you come back with me right now and ask Jeeves? If there's some wheeze that needs pulling off, he's your man. Well--he's _my_ man, but--"

"Relax, Bertie," Spooky said as he pushed open a shop door so creaky it made up handily for the lack of a bell. "All you need to do is meet the fellow. You can wait outside afterwards. I don't mind."

"Oh," I said, a trifle nonplused. "It's just...whenever anyone wants me to meet someone, it's usually because they want me to help convince their parents to let them marry a--"

Belatedly realizing that I had no idea what Spooky's intended actually did--not that two chaps could tie the knot, of course, but marriage of true minds, and all that--I took a quick glance around the dimly-lit shop and noticed with awful abruptness that the place was rather overstocked with coffins. All very nice, the somber, traditional sort I'm sure Jeeves would approve of, but still--not exactly the cheery sort of place I could imagine a wastrel earl popping into on a lark.

When I heard the creaky laughter at my back, I thought for a moment someone had been at the door again. Instead I turned to see one of the sturdy black coffins--propped up against the wall for show, or so I'd assumed--swing open to disgorge a tall man in a long black cassock--or is it cossack? No, I'm fairly sure it's cassock I want. His eyes were hidden by rather a lot of long silver hair that very nearly obscured the scar bisecting the top and lower half of his face, but the grin that would have made good old Barmy look like the soul of reason was left quite cheerfully on display.

"Undertaker," Spooky greeted the man cautiously, though not without a certain despairing fondness. I'd heard that tone more times than I could count from various friends and relations--the sort of exasperation generally reserved for a lovable mutt that has just chewed every shoe in the closet--and I confess I did a startled double-take at hearing it now. Surely this couldn't be the man Spooky wanted me to meet...?

"Earl," the unlikely mortician pronounced, much the same way I assumed a cat might look at a canary and say, 'dinner.'

Spooky snorted, clearly unimpressed, though I noticed he didn't let go of my arm. "This is Bertie Wooster," he introduced me, and though I couldn't see the other man's eyes, feeling them shift my way was not unlike the time Tuppy Glossop had dropped one of Gussie's newts down the back of my shirt. Sort of cold and shuddery and oh-Gawd-help-us, you know. "Bertie--this is the man I wanted you to meet."

I couldn't help a last glance in Spooky's direction, but he was giving me that imperturbable look I knew better than to argue with. Just like with Jeeves, sometimes there's no help for it but to buck up and go along, no matter how nonsensical the thing seems to be.

"Well," I said gamely, stepping forward and holding out my hand, "any friend of Spooky's, what?"

The man's hand was cool and callused, very strong, which I noticed when it froze in mid-shake and left me completely unable to reclaim my own.

"Spooky...?" he repeated slowly, one corner of his mouth twitching, his hand grasping mine more tightly still. I glanced over my shoulder, but Spooky was watching us avidly, almost hungrily, and I couldn't think for the life of me why.

Though I wasn't watching the man, I'm not sure it would have helped. Undertaker's sudden howls of laughter came over him like a fit, and I wasn't sure whether to grin warily along or peel the man off me and leg it out of there when I found my shoulder used for a prop. I'd never seen anyone laugh like that, not even my cousins Claude and Eustace when they pulled off some topping prank, sort of breathless and wracking all at once. It didn't look entirely comfortable, but when I shot a helpless glance at Spooky, he seemed perfectly unruffled, possibly a touch relieved.

The thought that this might be a normal occurrence was another point in favor of a hasty retreat, but before I could steel myself to make the dash, the mad cackling trickled off to hitching chuckles.

"Oh, Earl," Undertaker wheezed, still leaning on my shoulder. "Where on earth did you find this one?"

"The Woosters are old friends of the family," Spooky replied with a rather Jeevesian smile. "Can we get down to business, then? Bertie?"

That last was directed at me--or so I assumed; it seemed unlikely that we'd both turn out to be 'Berties'--and it took a mo' to remember that I'd only been required to meet the man. Now that the meeting had gone off, I wasn't required to hang about after.

"Oh, well, if I won't be interrupting," I managed. Honestly, I'd rather have been anywhere else, but I didn't like the idea of leaving an old school chum alone with an obvious lunatic.

"Not at all," Undertaker said toothily before Spooky could object. "Make yourself at home. Tea?"

"Oh, er--"

"We didn't come for the hospitality," Spooky announced, ignoring a wicked grin quirked in his direction. "You should have had some specialty work directed your way--passengers from a cruise ship, possibly more since then, mysterious circumstances of death. I'd like to know just how mysterious they were."

Well, I mean to say. It's one thing to pal around with an undertaker, and I suppose finding common points of interest might be a sticky proposition, but resorting to shop talk seemed a bit thick.

"Not mysterious at all, if you know what to look for," Undertaker replied, chortling under his breath as he steered me over to a stack of coffins. Deciding that humoring him was the best policy, I let myself be sat down to wait and resolved to watch him like a bally hawk as he started rummaging about with beakers and some sort of chemist's heater and...a tin of Earl Grey?

"Not plague, then?"

I jumped a bit at Spooky's question, delivered with the aplomb he'd been rightly famous for amongst our set, but Undertaker merely scoffed.

"My, my. What _are_ they teaching the youth today? I wager your friend there would understand if I mentioned the victims died of acute anemia coupled with a pair of puncture marks, like so," he drawled, tapping two long-nailed fingers against his own throat.

"Oh, well--I don't know about the anemia," I admitted. Wasn't that swelling? Because I thought it worked the other way around. "But the bite marks--that's vampires."

"Vampires," Spooky echoed dryly, glancing between me and Undertaker as if trying to work out which of us was having him on. "You're not serious."

"Are you claiming you haven't seen stranger, Earl?"

For some reason that made Spooky sigh. "No, you're right, of course. Still. I suppose I'm to be combing England for someone who shrinks from the light of day, avoids mirrors, and can rarely be found come mealtime?"

"I say," I said, sitting up straight on my coffin. "That sounds like Millie. Charming girl, even if she does have Aunt Agatha backing her number. You remember Agatha--my tough aunt, the one that bays at the moon and eats nephews alive. At any rate, I believe she met Millie at some resort or the other and insisted on luring her here with an eye to shackling said girl to self."

"Millie?" Spooky asked hopefully.

"Carmilla LeFontaine, or something to that effect. One of those sweet, frail things that looks like a good wind might tip her over, though she does have a smashing profile. Keeps to herself, goes about in dark glasses when she does leave the house, guarded night and day by this absolute bear of a butler."

"I don't suppose you're still engaged to her?"

"Not past the first half-hour," I felt compelled to admit, embarrassed enough I was actually grateful for the clear beaker of tea Undertaker deposited in my hand. "For some reason, the moment she clapped eyes on Jeeves, it was 'So long, Bertie; I hope we can still be friends.'"

Spooky sighed, shoulders slumping. "Lucky for you, I suppose, but not so lucky for me. I'll have to contrive an introduction some other way."

"I say--you don't think Millie's our bloodsucker, do you? I mean...just because Agatha likes her, that doesn't automatically make her one of the forces of darkness...."

"Maybe not," said Spooky, "but you have to admit, it's a telling indication of character. Thank you, Undertaker," he added as I scrambled to rise, realizing the interview was over. "We'll be in touch."

"Always welcome, Earl," Undertaker replied, transferring his unsettling grin from Spooky to me. "And your friend as well."

"Er. Thanks for the tea," I managed. By then Spooky was hauling me away by the arm, and I didn't exactly drag my heels in going.

Once we were safely outside, the door creaking shut at our backs, Spooky heaved an enormous sigh, shaking his head. "I swear," he grumbled aloud, "I don't know how my father ever managed that man. Mother's given up trying."

I must've looked as shocked as I felt, because he burst out laughing in the next instant. Well, really. I've met Spooky's mother, and though Lady Elizabeth looks like one of those empty-headed things my own aunts would have ridden roughshod over, there's a core of solid steel in the woman that I wouldn't care to cross. Perhaps it had something to do with being widowed young, having to raise a boy like Spooky and manage an estate and a sprawling business all by herself, but I've met Spooky's grandmother as well, and _that_ was a terror surpassing even aunts.

"Well, never mind. Thanks awfully, Bertie; I owe you one," Spooky said with that disarming earnestness that made him so blasted hard to refuse. "I'll see you back to civilization, then, shall I?"

We had to walk for several blocks before we spotted a cab at all and several more before we found one that would slow down enough to let us dive in. It was a fairly quiet ride we shared, Spooky being clearly preoccupied with his own troubles, and though I expected at any moment for the other shoe to drop, unlike my other pals, Spooky kept his footwear to himself. No further attempts to drag this Wooster into his plans resulted, and I found myself deposited outside Berkeley Mansions with a warm handshake and an ungrudging invitation to pop around sometime to chew over old times.

Jeeves didn't seem the slightest bit surprised to find the young master returning home long before the witches turned out for whatever it was they needed an hour for, merely divesting me of hat and walking stick as if I hadn't told him to make an afternoon of it. As I let him take my jacket, I said, "Well, Jeeves, I've just had it from impeccable sources that my most recent fiancée is some species of Nosferatu."

"Yes, sir," Jeeves agreed, brushing fastidiously at my jacket as I turned to boggle at the man.

"You knew, Jeeves?"

"Yes, sir. Her name was clearly an alias--"

"LeFontaine?"

"Le Fanu, sir," Jeeves corrected, "author of the classic Gothic work _Carmilla._ And of course, upon meeting her, the signs were unmistakable."

"Well, I'll be blowed." It occurred to me to wonder why Jeeves hadn't warned me earlier, only considering that the engagement hadn't lasted long enough to require him to fish me out of the soup, I supposed he thought the young master safely out of danger. Then again, garlic had featured quite prominently in his cooking recently, so I suppose that counted as taking reasonable precautions. "At any rate, it seems she cut a swath through a cruise ship--must be the same one she arrived on with Aunt Agatha--and now they've set the Phantomhive on her. Poor Spooky," I added, shaking my head. "It must be hard, having so much expected of him at his age."

"On the contrary, sir, having been brought up in the role, it's unlikely he knows the difference."

I sighed. "Well, there is that. Still...." Meeting Jeeves' eyes, I squared my shoulders, coming to a decision. "Jeeves," I said.

"Sir?"

"Renew my engagement to Millie. I require an invitation to her townhouse for myself and the Earl of Phantomhive within the next three days."

Jeeves eyed me keenly, knowing better than any my feelings on the subject of engagements, but he only asked, "You're quite certain, sir?"

"That's an order, Jeeves."

That came very close to making him smile, one of those sharp, narrow things that showed only the tiniest glimmer of teeth. "Yes," he said as his eyes sparked like coals, "my lord."

I clicked my tongue at that--the title of 'nobleman', evil or otherwise, was honorary in my case, at least until old Yaxley popped off--but the feudal spirit was far from dead in the Jeevesian breast, though I'm sure whatever passed for a heart in there was purely for show.

He's a marvel, Jeeves, whose price is above rubies, as I think the saying goes.

And as it certainly wasn't rubies I paid for his service, I suppose I ought to know.


End file.
